Mary gathered up the letters and put them into her bag. Then she got changed and made as good an attempt as she could to make her bed, not wanting Martha to get into trouble. She smoothed the sheets and then set off. She needed to go to the garden and find out if a suspicion the letters had put in her mind was true. If it was, then maybe she had discovered where the magic of the garden came from!

Mary slipped out of the house and headed across the lawn. She ran toward the trees and found the gate. Pulling the curtain of creepers back, she went straight into the part of the garden with the statues and flower beds. Dickon was there already, his coat off, humming a song. He had some gardening tools with him, and he was digging up the weeds near the temple at the far end. The robin was perched on the handle of a gardening fork that was dug into the ground, and the dog was snuffling near Dickon’s feet. The plants around him were a riot of spring color—reds, oranges, pinks, purples, blues.

The dog spotted Mary as she approached and ran over to say hello.

“Morning,” called Dickon.

“Morning!” gasped Mary, running past them.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dickon called.

“Follow me!” she cried.

The robin circled around her head. She let it lead her through the garden, trusting that the magic would help it to know where she needed to go. It took her through the giant ferns and into thick trees. The bushes seemed to close in on her, the vines snaking at her ankles, branches blocking her path as if the garden didn’t want her to go that way, but she forced her way through, following the robin. It twittered loudly as if it was urging her on. Determination beat through Mary. The garden had yet more secrets to reveal, and she was going to find them out.

She burst into a clearing that she had never been in before. She stopped as she took in the oak tree at the center of it. There was an old swing hanging from a strong branch. The robin landed on the oak tree and sang knowingly at Mary.

“Oh,” Mary said softly, realizing she had found what she had been looking for. She walked slowly up to the swing and crouched down beside it. Then she looked back at Dickon, her face serious. “This is the place,” she whispered. “The place where everything happened.”

Dickon looked confused.

“It’s where my aunt came to die,” Mary went on.

The robin flew down to land on her shoulder. Dickon came over, approaching her slowly as if she was a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten. “What do you mean?”